silver and gold throw down on me
by shinomu
Summary: Margaret Hale used to live in the most beautiful place on Earth, together with the dearest family one could ever wish for. Until one day, her life took a turn towards an unforeseen path, and all she could do was grasp tighly to a promise she made her mother: to be pious and good. [Cinderella!verse]
1. Chapter 1

_Once upon a Time…_

Margaret Hale used to live in the most beautiful place on Earth, together with the dearest family one could ever wish for. Her golden days were spent strolling around the forest, deciphering shades of green with her brother, learning purple hues with her mother's embroidery and shaping the most wonderful stories her father read to her with rainbow colors. Those were days spent in bliss and never a single worry occurred to the beautiful girl's eternal spring, for she was a most beloved creature amongst all of those who made her acquaintance, and only knew of goodness and warmth.

At the age of sixteen, however, young Miss Hale would learn of the sadder tones of the world. It was only a change of seasons after her brother left to explore the summer blue seas with his new captain. They managed to exchange a couple of letters that Margaret read every evening, recounting the adventures Fred has lived so far. It was so exciting, neither she nor her parents ceased to be amused every night by the tales retold. Since his letter was most handled by all, every other week Margaret would copy it anew on parchment, the words taking a breath of fresh air with every stroke of her feather pen.

Until one day, a black and yellowed paper turned their lives towards an unforeseen path. The colors seemed to all turn to mud as they were informed that their sweet, rosy Fred was painted as the head of a mutiny in his ship. All sailors rebelled against their captain and a handful of superiors, throwing them out in a boat to wander at sea, and were now considered utmost traitors of the country. Margaret has never seen color drain so fast from skin as her mother lost her footing, her father immediately holding her up, although barely managing to keep his stance up himself.

At that time she learned doubt and fear, feelings that settled deep inside her, and didn't seem to go away so easily. They stuck around, heavying her pace, covering their once cheerful household in a thick fog that seemed to make the air like sludge. There was no vibrancy anymore, not even the early autumn leaves had the courage to irradiate an orange so bright, settling in a strange, abated hue.

Her mother waited on the path beyond their gates every single day. There would have to come a time, she mused, when Fred would be back, so she waited and waited. One day – although no one knew how many days or weeks past – he did. Burnished and weighted down, the prodigal son returned, to finally bring a burst of happiness back. But it didn't last long – couldn't, for his actions were brandished as treason by the state, although for all the wrong reasons. His last act of shining bravery was to reach for his family, try and give them some much needed breath, and then leave – perhaps forever.

After he left, the muddied colors started fading. It gave every surface Margaret gazed upon an ineffable quality – a new word that broadened her small world so – albeit with a gloomy tinge.

It was the talk of the town how the once beautiful Miss Beresford was now colorless, a dull little thing with no more regard towards life. Margaret and her father watched every day how she wilted and wilted until she was no more, parting from her daughter with a last advice: "My dear child, be pious and good, and know that I will always look down upon you from heaven". Her no longer presence left a big crimson gash in their hearts, a wound her father never seemed to recover from.

Margaret held on fast to her mother's last words and took it as a promise to live as her mother asked. And so she did, watching the time go by while trying to bring goodness and joy to her dear father. One day, as she sat by her window contemplating when the whiteness would finally melt so that her dear greens could start picking up again, father cleared his throat, stopping her dangling feet.

"Margaret, dear" she looked up, "I decided it is time for a much needed change."

And change it was, drastic enough to knock out her breath for a few seconds. And like a whirlwind, passing so fast and so suddenly that only when her feet touched the northern station did she finally notice how many shades between black and white there could possibly be. Milton was a challenge to the senses, everything that Margaret could never imagine. And unfairness was a long forgotten word that made a vindictive return. Careful as not to be swallowed by the rustle and bustle of the big city, she cautiously recomposed herself, holding her head high as she once learned, and faced the unknown territory bravely, with only goodness in her heart. And through all the stares and whispers, all she could think of was her mother's sweet voice, and her own promise that no matter how life would treat her, she'd strive to unfold beauty in the world, and think of all with kindness.

oOo

"Call me _aunt_ " she once said, " _Stepmother_ sounds like such a terrible thing". Indeed, it did, and indeed, _it fitted her better_ , Margaret thought with resent. The last year of her life seemed to have crumbled all the way to its current state – a continued path of discovery towards the obscurest places of the human heart.

Every night she sat with her father (the only precious time she spent with him these days) and prayed and prayed that she could continue to be the good daughter her mother wished her to be. Each day was trying, as if pushing Margaret to break her promise. And sometimes it managed to succeed, leaving her devastated as she retired to her rooms.

It has been barely past spring when Mr. Hale took a new wife. Although Margaret was all sunny disposition to meet with her, she was left sorely disappointed after their first meeting. Mrs. Shaw was a rambunctious lady, so as not to say flimsy and ostentatious. Her previous husband was a very rich man, and left her a very rich widow. There was no reason Margaret could think of that would paint kindly Mrs. Shaw's interest in her father. He wasn't wealthy – or healthy, for the matter – and his quiet ideas of livings didn't match the woman in the least. It wasn't long after the wedding that she started showing her true colors to the young Miss Hale.

Her father's new wife came with a daughter, beautiful, fair thing that she was, Edith's heart knew nothing but selfishness. Her pale, nimble fingers were full of greed, claiming everything they touched – books, diaries, jewelries, shawls, dresses, all of Margaret's dear handkerchiefs, nearly all of her memories from her brother and mother. It was an amusement to _aunt_ having Margaret so dispirited after her room being raided token after token – for what, she never really found out, didn't even enter the other women's chambers out of respect, even when they would never do the same for her.

Mr. Hale was too weak to take any notice of what was happening in his household. He married out of worry for his daughter when he passed – unknowingly making sure she would spend those days in injustice. So Margaret did what she knew, treated him with kindness, hid the last of her treasures, and endured the poor treatment on her own, praying and believing everything would turn out for the better.

It didn't.

Widow to the late Mr. Shaw, _Madam_ Hale now stood beside Margaret and Edith as the body of Mr. Hale was lowered to the ground (she never really got used to the Mrs. Hale title, nor did Margaret – who could only think how it soiled her mother's memory). Having donned black for the second time in such a short period, Margaret and her stepfamily couldn't have more disparate feelings about the new quality of their silks. Madam Hale was resolved to have the bare minimum period of mourning before she resumed her social activities back, and was already arranging an order for a full, fresh wardrobe for the upcoming summer. Edith was to be relieved in a month's time, to be engaged to a certain Captain Lennox.

Margaret was left in the basement with two graying cotton gowns and a damp bed.

* * *

 **AN** : Say _what_ , a Cinderella!AU? Well, yes indeed! I just couldn't resist, so please bear with me here. I'm loosely basing this on miscelaneous sources, mainly the brothers Grimm's version, where the title comes from, but with a touch of the latest movie and the Disney animation. As for North and South itself, it's a mix between the book and the series, but the plot will obviously be very different from both. I do hope you enjoy it!


	2. Chapter 2

No one calls him by his name in this town. He is "lad", "draper boy", sometimes "mister" and rarely "John". To all of Milton's society he is an orphan, having arrived about a year ago with solely the clothes on his back to account for. Like many before him, he traveled up north to find work, and his youth and strength would have quickly granted him a position in any available cotton mill, as was his purpose.

It was right before he went to Marlborough's when the entire building burned to the ground in less than two hours. John stood almost mesmerized by the flames while the city was thrown into chaos with smoke and grieving. He offered his help as soon as the fire was contained, and has never fully shaken the sensation of being covered in ashes. After, it was no wonder he couldn't enter another factory, and luckily his prompt offering for help cast him on the good side of a few masters and others in trade.

John is startled from his reverie with the ringing of the doorbell tearing over the quietness in the drapery shop. He looks towards the entrance, ready to greet the newcomer, when in comes a downcast, wisp of woman. She looks up with round, soft eyes that take his breath away, along with his wits, and he stands there frozen.

"Well, that is a warm welcome" she comments with a tinge of sprit, lips spreading into a haughty smile as the sudden spell John must have temporarily succumbed to is broken. He adjusts his posture akin to her own – back straight, head high – and musters every single ounce of politeness from his slightly offended self before asking "How may I help you, miss?"

He recognizes her now, the young Miss Hale from Crampton, and his heart clenches in sadness at the memory of Mr. Hale's public lectures at the Lyceum Hall.

"I have an order from Mrs. Sh-" she clears her throat, "Madam Hale, of Crampton" and almost gingerly delivers him a list.

He pauses for a second perusing the beautiful calligraphy work, but his eyebrows rise up out of his own accord at the lavishness of the order. John clears his throat.

"This might take more than a month to be delivered. This kind of lace is currently only fabricated in France"

A frown mars her features, and he thinks she seems to almost deflate. "Are you sure there is nothing to be done about the wait time?" she asks, with a wilting blue disposition washing over her that appeals to something deep – _and treacherous!_ – inside him.

"I-" he again clears his throat, thinking how sore it would become if he keeps in this fashion, "All the other gowns can be delivered sooner, within next week, and I shall see about the lace". It was honestly all he could promise; even if he wanted to do more, he was merely a draper assistant.

"Very well" she says in an exhale, sounds so close to being annoyed that it makes him defensive in turn. "Thank you and have a good day, mister"

oOo

As the sun starts its setting course, Margaret struggles with the weight of the groceries as she enters the house and calls for Mary – the girl who has been working as a cook for the family since her father's passing and after Madame Hale dismissed all of the servants. Both struck a quick, albeit shy, friendship. It wasn't well known around Milton about the condition of the young Miss Hale, and Mary was quite surprised to find her a glorified maid. For all of Milton society, Miss Margaret was just keeping to her mourning, only leaving the house to aide on urgent matters of the household and breathe some fresh air.

"Mary, where are you?" was the now impatient call as Margaret sits the basket heavily on the table, taking off her coat and carefully hanging it.

"Oh, Margaret, you're back already?" sounded Edith's voice from outside the kitchen. She never put her dainty feet inside it, so that Margaret always had to go to her.

"Oh, there you are, _finally_! I heard your voice, and thought you might be looking for the cook."

"Yes, indeed I was, Miss Edith, do you happen to know her whereabouts?" she knew the other woman couldn't possibly care about the help, and a bad feeling started coiling inside her.

"Oh, mama is so forgetful sometimes!" Edith huffed, "She was supposed to tell you that we discharged the girl last night! So, now you must plan your day according to your new tasks" she ended almost sweetly, as if to rub salt to the wound.

Margaret couldn't answer right away, and stood frozen in her ladylike posture – the one that consistently has Madam and Edith's feathers ruffled, and one of the reasons why they treated Margaret so poorly, in hopes to see her finally fail at something. After a heartbeat or two, she finally opened her mouth to speak, but was beaten by the other woman gasping, hand over her mouth as she feigned to suddenly remember something.

"Oh, dear me, how could I forget? Margaret, I dropped my tin of beads next to the fireplace a while ago! You must collect them all before mama arrives, you know how angry she can get!" at that, she turns towards the stairs, leaving Margaret trying to constrain the red hot anger that burns inside her.

oOo

The week before Edith's wedding is full with mind-numbing work. Margaret's entire body aches, and she wonders how such a town of gossips still passively believes in the façade she struggled hard to maintain. Her coat couldn't hide its used coarseness anymore, even when kept with utmost care, and the warming temperature would soon stop requiring its constant use. She did fear that day. Try as she might to be strong and remember her oath, being degraded inside her own home was enough to endure; she feared she wouldn't have the courage to face the entire society with her head held high if it was the case.

With a sigh, she resumes ironing petticoats until she is interrupted by Madam Hale.

"I have a new addition to your chores!" she announces grandly, as she is bent to whenever springing a sudden, trying task on Margaret. "Since me and Edith both agree that there's no way you cannot attend the ceremony without having questions asked, we decided to extend our utmost kindness towards you. So here, take this dress and make it ready for the day after tomorrow" she left a bundle of fabric on the ground with a final flourish. "Hurry now, dear, I don't believe you'll have much time for dying and readying it"

Her laughter still echoed as she left, and all of a sudden Margaret is hit with the ugly purple urge to cry. Instead, she lifts the hot iron carefully and pulls up the now straightened petticoat, arranging it to be carried back to the dressing room. She takes a deep breath, trampling down the knot in her throat and at last takes the courage to slowly start towards the dress, a silky teal beauty that shimmered slightly with a silvery quality.

It was one of her old dresses, one of the first Edith has claimed.

She picks it up with such tenderness she isn't sure who is more afraid – her, or the poor fabric for being handled so roughly – and both tremble faintly. She holds it close, feeling its smoothness, and feels very sorry to have to ruin such a lovely color with her black dyes. She murmurs an apology as she places it in a metal bucket, turning to the kitchen to boil some water.

It is late in the evening when she finally suspends the dress to dry, having completed all her tasks. The stark black greets her mutely, the color finally being properly welcomed by the first reluctant fabric. It does look heavier now, and Margaret can't help feeling the same. She tries to shake the tiredness off, and runs her hands over her face to bring back the rosiness chased away for so long. At an hour like this, she might leave the house with no one to worry about, hidden by her coat and scarf.

Listening carefully, she ascertains that both women upstairs have retired to their rooms, drinks a cup of tea and softly closes the back door, making sure her steps are feather light.

The library has been a true refuge after her dear father's passing. Since she now lived in the dull, cold part of the house, being greeted by warm wood floors and walls and the smell of books is surely a blessing. It is there where she can truly respire and let go of all strung-up tension inside her soul. She nods to the night clerk, a stony fellow who moved little and talked even less, and makes way towards the Literature section where Mr. Hale's leather bound Homer edition now rested. Madam Hale made her very first duty to get rid of the once beautiful library he so much cared for, and it had felt like losing him all over again. Her life had undeniably taken a subdued quality ever since then.

She is startled by a cough behind her, and turns quickly, heart beating fast against her chest.

"I apologize, miss, if I had frightened you" it was the draper assistant – _what was his name?_ "I was just asking you if you were finished in this section."

"Oh, right, yes…" she felt disconcerted by his sudden presence, and stepped aside. "I was just picking this one to take with me, sorry mister…?"

"John, but you may call me however you like." Her face scrunches up at this, finally remembering he was an orphan – but unlike her, one with no family name to take any comfort in. He asks if she enjoys Homer, and it takes her a few seconds to answer.

"Yes, it's not my favorite, but this is the most beautiful edition there is, to me" it was strange that her heart was still fluttering, but it's been a long time since she had any sort of opportunity to talk about books with someone else. "See, it has my father's commentary all over it" she offered the book to him, finally looking in his eyes.

They talk until the clerk comes to cast them out. And both leave with lighter minds.

 **AN:** If you are reading this, then thank you for bearing with me! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and how the story starts to unfold. I obviously took liberties with the tale here, since I wanted to bring the characters together slowly. I don't mean to rush to the happy ever after, so this will be about 5 chapters long.

Special thanks to the Guest who reviewed! If possible, do tell me if you like it!


	3. Chapter 3

"I don't know how anyone could prefer this version. It's so… grim!" a pause, and as Mary's eyes meet Margaret's, laughter. The sudden joyful noise startles the children, and three of them drift curiously towards the kitchen. Mary pats a blonde topped head as she returns the book, "I much prefer the one with the fairy godmother – _that's_ magic for you! And no horrible feet cutting" Margaret bites her lips at that – it was, of course, one of her favorite parts of the Brothers Grimm's Cinderella, from a book the library just recently acquired.

"I agree it doesn't make the most appropriate tale before bedtime…" she sighs, pulls the youngest girl into her lap, "But surely you can appreciate the nuances!"

Mary scrunches up her face, but can very well picture a certain Mrs. Hale and her daughter as the evil women on the story, as probably did Margaret. "Save your fancy wording to the draper boy" she decides to answer, letting a cheeky smile grow just to infuriate her friend further. "And don't let Tess fall asleep on you again, she'll be spoiled!" she laughs as she steers the boys back to the bedroom, rejoicing in the blush spreading on Margaret's frowning face.

The aforementioned little girl conspicuously sticks her tongue out, and Margaret bites her lips again, in case she isn't strong enough to resist the temptation of copying little Tess. In spite of the previous jab, or maybe because of it, she can't help the images her mind is suddenly flooded with – that of the last time she met him on the library and heard his laughter for the first time. Her traitorous heart joins her equally traitorous mind by picking up its beat, and she takes deep breaths while carrying the girl back to bed. She isn't heavy, but adds to the constant dull ache in Margaret's body, although everything takes a bit of a sweeter tone when the kids were involved.

After a whole day sweating in the kitchen heat, being able to call on Mary late in the evening brought some life back to her disheartened self. Sometimes it seems like the only place she can actually enjoy a meal, surrounded by the warmness of the close fire and the gaggle of children. She inhales the night air deeply on her way back to the Crampton house, holds her book closely and lets her mind wonder a little about the fairytale Mary was complaining about. She sometimes wishes there was such thing as magic – surely at one point the forests around her home in Helston could have convinced her that there lived beings out of this world. Probably under the hedge roses, along the soft golden petals, played mischievous minute creatures that needed naught but honey to survive. Or high up the willow trees, secretive elves made bridges and hideouts out of intrinsically carved wood.

But such times are long past, and there seemed to have no room for such farfetched reveries in Milton. If there were any magic left in the city, it was probably changed to something sorrowful and cold. The creaky board at the servants' entry seems to confirm her thoughts, as does the darkened corridor and stairs down to the basement. The chilly air in her chamber cuts deeper than usual, chasing away the brave strands of color and brilliancy and goodness that still clung to her heart, leaving her feeling hollow inside.

 _And so impossibly alone._

oOo

It's been a change of seasons since the wedding, and with Edith still away with her new husband in Greece there was little to distract Madam Hale other than her social functions. This left Margaret under her full attention, both finding there was apparently no end to all the creative work the older woman could order her stepdaughter to do, leaving not a single minute when Margaret could take a pause to even catch her breath. It also proved to be a great distraction for the mistress of the house, who wanted her mind far away from the bore of domestic economy.

For all of Madam Hale's claims to owning a grand fortune, her lavish lifestyle has proved to be well beyond her means. Almost two years after the late Mr. Shaw passed; she's had barely enough time to enjoy the comfortable livings and her prized, beautiful daughter, when she received the most dreadful news about her financial status. Living in the capital proved to be no longer affordable if she wanted to keep her social life as it was and Edith's dowry untouched.

Marriage to Mr. Shaw has never been a matter of love, but that of duty. Thus, taking a second husband and therefore having a legitimate reason to leave the capital and diluting her expenses without losing status seemed the best course of action. A certain Mr. Hale seemed most appropriate for the post, being a widow with a daughter himself. Of course, it was only after marrying the cowardly gentleman that she found how _he_ could have never known what a marriage of convenience meant.

Madam Hale huffed and fanned herself to try and disperse such sour thoughts. Mr. Hale was decidedly gone, and he was never very enthusiastic about her fashionable tastes and ideas for entertaining to be properly missed. He even had the gall to leave a will that ascertained she would be completely responsible for his wretched daughter until she was married. Even _worst_ , he left both Margaret and some other _friend_ letters of goodbye. Of course she burned them both, in a fit of rage that to this day still seemed a very righteous act.

"Excuse me, Madam, here's your tea"

Speak of the devil! It seemed to be of no use, trying to steer away from unpleasant matters when there seemed to be nothing she could ever do to bend and break the girl.

"I changed my mind" she stood, "Prepare my shawl, hat and gloves, I shall take a walk". As an afterthought, she took a look around the room, skipping the letters on the table and deliberately taking embroidery basket from the settee and dropping its contents on the floor, "Do not forget to tidy up, there mustn't be a pin out of place when I come back"

With a last sneer towards the girl, she went upstairs, already thinking how to best start bragging to Mrs. Latimer about the most exciting news she received on dear Edith's last letters. She couldn't wait to start planning a complete layette for the baby!

oOo

They are arguing about Plato.

Again.

"Surely, a Republic would be an ideal government, considering…"

"Considering one was born with high social status _and_ , of course, as a _man_! There was no choice for anyone else; I wonder how can you even defend it? We'd both stand no chance under such regime."

"Well…" he searches for words, scowls, "when you put it like that…"

She gives him that insufferable smile, the one she wears when she _knows_ she's right. And really, how could he argue against her, especially considering his current position. Still, there was that flame burning inside, pushing him to make her keep talking somehow, stay a little longer, even if it meant he would eventually be consumed by fire.

"I think we better go now," Margaret sighs, calming herself down, "or Mr. Crow will have to rush us out again". She lifts herself up in a graceful manner and he wonders how someone manages so effortlessly to always act with such elegance. Alas, she frowns, " _Or_ if Sholto wakes up suddenly again, then I'll be in trouble"

He nods, remembering Mrs. Lennox' child, a two month's old boy who knew nothing but crying. Both gather their coats at the entryway – winter may come and go, but nights remained chilly in Milton.

John feels a certain tightness in his chest that's been marking its presence every time he watches her go. He once thought that, after so many months of some sort of tentative friendship, the pull towards her would lessen in strength, but their occasional meetings kept proving him sorely mistaken. He relishes her company too much, drinks her words as the old Grecian gods took nectar to survive – makes him risk making a fool of himself with such comparisons. It must be completely ungentlemanly to marvel at her hands as often as he does –

"Well, then, we shall depart from here" her voice summons him back to reality, and he cannot help thinking how often such occasion repeats itself.

"It is very late, if the lady wouldn't mind, might I accompany you until we reach Crampton?"

Margaret is taken aback by his offer, being accustomed to walking back all alone. It wasn't ladylike at all to be out at such hours, but she had to make the most of the smallest opportunities to leave the house, and never expected anyone to look out for her. Hence his slightly outstretched arm taking her completely by surprise.

She gulps deeply and accepts his offer.

oOo

She is sure this is how it must feel to live underwater – the sounds are all disperse and with the strangest quality, her body feeling pressured from all sides. He is speaking, for his mouth is moving, but she seemed to have submerged under this strange spell when his dismantled words started making some kind of sense. Was he… declaring his love for her? She shivered and trembled under his gaze, feeling very small and scared.

 _He couldn't._

 _He couldn't love her!_

"Miss Hale, I do know I'm not in the position to offer you anything, and I know such a creature as you must not care for me. Still, I love, and if you would have me, you could leave that awful pla-"

Something snaps inside her, and she finally emerges.

"How dare you?" she feels coldness prickling up her skin, not in the least as sweet as the sensation she felt before, with his chilly fingers on her arm, "How _dare_ you, turning something I trusted you with against me?"

"That is not what I meant, surely you – "

"No! No, 'I surely' _nothing_!" there is too much anger, too much resent threatening to consume her, and she can't hear it anymore, the entire world already tinted an ugly red. "I need no savior, mister, especially not you!"

Hurt was a terrible thing, particularly one that struck where it already hurt. He laughs bitterly, spurring her rage even more. "No, I wouldn't expect you to even consider a lowly man like myself. I just meant to tell you my feelings, Miss Hale, for _they are true_. I care for you, immensely! And foolishly wished you would give me a chance to try and pursue your affections!"

"And as I thought I made clear, the answer is no! I believed we were friends, and could never have considered anything more!" which is a lie, she knows, muddy green and slimy, running down her throat, but she can't seem to stop the words from tumbling down, "I do not allow you to continue to act on such selfish desires!"

There, that is the point something precious breaks audibly between them. Both stand facing each other, heaving, and hoping the other couldn't hear the shattering of their hearts.

"Come, let us not part like this, Miss Hale", he finally manages to let out, awkwardly lifting his hand.

She turns away and leaves without a word.

* * *

 _ **AN:**_ Hello once more! I hope you all received my messages answering and thanking you for the reviews. To all of those who took the time to read so far, I am very grateful.

This chapter gave me more trouble than I could have anticipated, so I apologize for taking so long to publish it. I had to develop a bit more ground before the second part of the story, since I'm trying to make both North & South and Cinderella's plot meet. If you have any questions so far, feel free to ask me and also comment if there's something troubling you about the story, be it the plot of the writing itself.


	4. Chapter 4

As fairytales would often go, something quite spectacular would happen at the lowest point in the heroine's narrative, so that her story may finally moves towards a happy ending. This story might or might not be a fairytale – that depends on your own understanding of magic. As it goes, in the morning after Miss Hale and John's most unfortunate meeting, a whimsical whitehaired man whistles calmly as he descends the stairs of the train station.

He comes from the capital, and carries with him a lone carpet bag. There are two reasons why he is up north – and both come from two recently received letters. One that simply requires a discreet delivering to a certain draper assistant, he must probably accomplish quickly. The other was quite the different matter. Still, he has hope that his connections will gladly help him, even if it means his stay in Milton lasts a little longer.

As the man ascends the carriage of a private hire, nothing seems different with the world. Most would say nothing outstanding could come out from such trivial event, but that we shall see.

oOo

One could never pinpoint the change of seasons in Milton. The landscape would always be shaded by thick clouds, the winds blowing unyieldingly, icy on the beginning of the year, fresh by the middle of it. Still, the city would be painted in grey for all of twelve months, and Margaret has long discarded her childish perseverance in finding color even in the most unexpected places.

With a heavy sigh and yet another heavy parcel, Margaret ponders when has she become so dull. There was barely anything that could wake her from the strange torpor she seemed to live on since her dear father's passing. Everything was business, and she labored hard every day to keep the house – _Madam Hale's_ house – clean and tidy and comfortable. It's been too long, and nothing has changed in that aspect – and everything gave reason to believe it would continue to be so.

The last spur of emotion her poor heart felt was a month ago, when the draper boy (man, really, but he had this boyish look when he smiled that she couldn't shake off) asked if he could… what was it? Oh, right, _try and pursue her affections_. She laughed at his face, brutally rejecting him. But she didn't have the drive to laugh after, even with spite being an actual taste in her mouth. She knew she couldn't afford to encourage such actions. That draper boy was a fool if he didn't see what Margaret was reduced to – a lifeless frame with no prospects other than taming a spoiled heir and a spoiled Edith and slaving away under her aunt's tyranny.

It was the very first time she ever yelled at someone – ever been that angry, and she could barely recognize herself in her memories. The now permanent knot in her throat served as a reminder of unbearable sense of betrayal. She considered him a friend as much as she considered Mary, trusted him enough to confide about her situation in the Hale household.

How ashamed she feels now, and for what she doesn't exactly know. She wasn't wrong about his nature, not when he was so discreet a person with quite the revulsion for town gossip. Which in turn makes her feel even more a fool – how his constant and sensible presence made her believe it safe to pour her feelings and history while he never uttered a single word about his own past. He made a wonderful listener and sometimes advisor, but he never shared much beyond his uncannily brilliant intellect and penchant for philosophical debates.

A blush creeps up her neck as she remembered how much she thought about him – how that treacherous voice in her heart whispered the most nonsensical ideas to her mind – like trying to decipher the fall of his eyelids and the turn of his words. She wishes she could quench her heart like she does her lungs with air – it was as unfair as any other aspect of her life that made her stifle any bud of passion that dared to try and take root. All for trying and saving what was left of goodness within her – a futile hope, the more she thinks about it, and one she might be going about quite the wrong way.

Still, it hurt immensely when he indicated one of the reasons for her to accept his confession – as if she didn't already feel completely unsuited even in front of a nameless draper assistant. No, he _had_ to mention how he could help her get away from Madam Hale's cruelty – as if she would ever think about marrying just to get rid of her miserable life. She wanted him, yes, but never on such terms. And it hurt and hurt until the entire world felt numb.

Edith's shrill voice cut through Margaret's sudden erratic heart – has she just admitted her feelings for the draper boy?

" _There_ you are, what took you so long? Sholto has been howling since you left and I can't concentrate on anything! Do take care of that right now!"

"Yes, ma'am, I shall fetch him immediately after leaving these at the nursery" she motioned the weight she was caring and Edith urged her to finish her business as quick as possible while the baby's piercing wailing echoed around them.

She could barely breath.

oOo

John clears his throat, awkwardly handing the packages to the still bereaved Miss Hale. He wants to say something – anything to bring out the softness that he once saw gracing her eyes. What comes out makes them both flinch.

"Mrs. Hale still insists on having you pick up her purchases?"

He watches her flexible throat as her breath seems to catch, and reprimands himself, his coarseness.

An affirmative – at least he thinks it is – is spoken through a sigh, crowned by a frown. He looks down, embarrassed, wishes she wouldn't leave (but knows she'll keep doing so, she as good as told him a month before).

"I'm sorry, Miss Hale, I hope you have a nice day" is all he can muster.

She bows and takes off, a shuffle of dark skirts and the ring of the bell the last trace of her presence. He groans at the relentless racing of his heart, even when he knows she'd never look back at him the way he most longed for.

He tries and fails to distract himself, tidying up the ribbons on display and checking the calendar once again. He is startled, and chides himself for being so easily surprised by the doorbell.

A professoral type enters the shop, seemingly distracted by his surroundings, showing only a mop of silver hair. When John greets the gentleman, a familiar face looks up, smiling.

"Good morning, lad" is all he says as he slips an envelope over the now cleared balcony, nods and whistles quietly as he leaves.

John takes a deep breath at the sight of the Royal sealing, and quickly stores the letter on his trousers' pocket as a new caller arrives.

oOo

 **AN:** This is a little shorter than usual, but feel it's a good stopping point. I hope it starts to enlighten you better about the storyline. I also apologize for Margaret in this chapter, I usually do not see her character as the "poor me" type, but I think she's been through enough to get into a quite depressive state. Also, I quite enjoyed the reaction to last chapter – honestly it's a lot like I felt when I read the passage where she brutally rejects John in North and South, so I wanted to emulate that. Sorry about the wait, life is really eating all my time.


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